


Postponed Grief

by catbusgang



Category: DreamSM, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dadza, Dream Smp, Dream Team SMP - Freeform, DreamSMP - Freeform, One Shot, One-Shot, Oneshot, Phil is sad, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Phil, ghostbur is here, he tries his best but it gets to be too much for him oops, i dunno how tags work tbh, i dunno how to make italics, i love tommy i tried hard to imagine his dialogue in his voice, im so sorry phil i, ive only uploaded like once before and i orphaned it, phil has a bit of a breakdown, tommy is a Good son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbusgang/pseuds/catbusgang
Summary: Staged about a year after the finale, Phil has a little bit of a breakdown over in-the-moment choices and, y'know... murdering a certain someone.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Postponed Grief

November 16th.

The grand finale- the last great era of the strong, wonderful nation founded, adored, and blown to rubble and ash under his son's rule. His pride, his joy, and his eventual spiral into paranoia, his death.

(His murder.)

November 16th. One year, three hundred sixty-five days after it happened. Phil stood on a hill overlooking the humble recreation of Wilbur's country- New L'Manburg. His wings shuddered and ruffled as the chilly air wove through them. He had a guitar case strapped to his back, and his green and white bucket hat sat low on tangled, messy blond hair.

He stepped down the pathway. The Prime path, as his youngest lovingly named it.

One step, two steps, three steps. 

(It was so hard.)

Four steps, five steps, six steps. 

(He tried not to think about where he was going.)

Seven steps, eight steps, nine steps. 

(He really, really tried not to.)

Ten steps, and he was once again on ground level. 

(He failed.)

Phil took up space a comfortable, close distance from his son's tombstone under the L'Mantree. He sat in a criss-cross position, as Wilbur was prone to do, and he gently, so, so gently, took the guitar case and set it on the ground. The grass hadn't quite grown back yet, having been covered in ash and soot for quite a while, and the dirt shifted under its weight.

He took hold of the latches and unlocked them carefully.

One latch, two latches.

Three latches, four latches.

The cover was lifted to reveal a glossy, smooth acoustic guitar, lovingly worn, used. The blond lifted it out of its case and set it in his lap gently.

No strings were strummed, no tune was played, no sound was made besides the wind blowing gently through the grieving man at his dead son's grave.

Phil closed his eyes. He held it lovingly to himself. 

(If he tried hard enough, he could hear the echoes of joyful, of melancholy, of envious chords echoing through the guitar's hollow body.)

Long seconds turned into minutes, long minutes turned into an hour. An hour turned into two, then three.

He was still there, holding the guitar as if it were a neglected, bruised child that needed comfort and warmth and care.

(Wilbur had been that child once.)

A familiar figure materialized, red beanies and yellow sweaters and curly, matted brown hair. Warm, but sad eyes, and round glasses that reflected your face if you looked hard enough. He watched the still scene with muted interest, he could feel the hurt- the betrayal- radiating off his father.

"Phil?"

Wings unfurled and eyelids startled open. Father and ghost looked at each other for a long moment.

"Wilbur." It sounded sharper than he'd meant it to, less easy-going than Phil liked to believe he was.

Ghostbur decided to sit down- well, as much as he was able to without sinking into the ground.

"You're angry with me," he commented quietly. It wasn't careless, nor accusatory, simply honest as a child's input.

Phil thought for a few heartbeats. As much as he tried, he couldn't merge Wilbur and Ghostbur into the same person. They simply weren't the same. Phil knew- Aether above, he /knew/- it was irrational, but such is grief.

The stripped back version of the Wilbur he'd known- painful memories all but erased, the good experiences bubbling up in an inexperienced soul- had stolen his son away. Phil tore his eyes away from Ghostbur's face, almost ashamed. He knew the brunet had seen the internal war, had studied him carefully.

"No," he tried to lie, then relented. "Yes. Oh, I know it's not your fault, but I can't- I..." the blond trailed off, ducking his head. It took all his willpower to stave off the sobs beginning to flood his throat.

Ghostbur's brows furrowed in sympathy, and he put one of his cold hands on Phil's knee in a show of concern.

Phil gasped mutely at the action. He couldn't- the touch was overpowering- it was there and not at the same time, a phantom of physical contact, he could search and search for the warmth and find everything and nothing at all. His son- but not his son- all he could feel was a powerful reflection of his own psyche.

He couldn't help himself.

Philza- safe, wonderful, humble, knowledgeable, strong, secure, stable, stable, stable Philza- cried. Tears fought their way down his flushed cheeks, and he half-heartedly tossed the guitar on the ground in favor of trying to hide the sobs that wracked his body and face with gloved, dirty palms. He hadn't cried since it happened, he noted dully.

He cried and sniffled and wiped at his eyes and wailed like a child and hid his face and yet, it couldn't stop the flood, the torrent, the tsunami of emotion rolling through him, relieved to crash through the floodgates for the first time in a long, long time.

Ghostbur looked alarm from where he sat. He retracted his hand almost immediately, confusion washing away his usual pleasant and content expression. But when he saw the way Phil's arms wrapped around himself and basically looked like he was dying for any sort of comforting contact, he made the choice to give it.

The tall, wispy brunet quietly tucked himself into Phil's lap, letting his head lean against Phil's shoulder in the way a sleepy kid would when confronted with the idea of not being carried up to bed. He folded his hands in his lap neatly and allowed his not-quite-there form to be cradled by Phil, as much as he could without phasing through him.

They stayed there for quite a while.

Eventually, Phil calmed down enough to try and actually talk about how Wilbur's actions had affected him, having forgotten about the consequences. Ghostbur, naturally averse to situations in which he had to confront his living self's memories, mumbled a quiet, frightened apology before vanishing into thin air. Phil didn't seem to notice until a few long minutes later.

He cursed guiltily and folded in on himself, head on his knees, trying his damndest to breathe evenly and calm himself down. Having been a long session of what was basically nonverbal venting, he sniffed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands. His eyes darted to the guitar he'd abandoned on the ground, one of few items he'd had to remind himself of Wilbur's physical existence, to comfort himself with the thought that he had been alive once, that at one point Phil hadn't been tasked with slaughtering his son, his boy, in a fit of bad decisions and hopelessness.

Phil took it up gently and held it once more, puffy, red eyes closing as his grip on the neck of the guitar loosened slightly. He shuddered through one breath, and then another. 

He fell asleep there, next to his son's grave, holding his guitar like a lifesaver.

(This time, he didn't have a certain dream filled with fire and blood and bombs and swords and death, death, death.)

-

"-hil? Phil?"

The blonde reacted a bit badly to being woken up so terribly, with being shaken awake and all, and he harshly batted at the hand shoving his shoulder. He opened his eyes to meet blue ones, sincerity and warmth and apologies playing a game of hide and seek underneath annoyance and a facade of confusion.

"Uh- Tommy?" he asked blearily, struggling to throw off the blanket of fatigue clouding him.

"Have you been out here all night, Phil? You're going to catch cold, you know, it's a bit hypocritical, I mean, to go on and on about the chance of getting sick in a dark, damp ravine and then fall asleep outside in November with not even a blanket or anything and-" Tommy kept rambling on as he does, while Phil groaned as he stood up, joints cracking and tired muscles burning in protest.

The guitar. 

Phil looked around wildly, a trickle of fear dripping down his throat, but he saw the guitar case closed and the latches locked. He managed a small half-smile before picking it up carefully, satisfied that the weight of the guitar was safely inside. 

"-nd I just think you would do well to not contradict yourself like that in the future big man, no offense, of course-" Tommy probably would've gone on forever if Phil hadn't put a finger to his lips and grinned.

"All's well, Tommy. Mans is just having himself a sleep," he quietly told his youngest. They exchanged a look. Tommy wasn't stupid, and he nodded with a quiet hum of acknowledgement before seeing Tubbo walking round doing whatever it is the president does and going off to join him, not without a hasty goodbye to Phil.

Phil rubbed a hand down his face, and took a lungful of fresh autumn air.

He still wasn't through it. He didn't know if he ever would be.

But as Tommy and Tubbo excitedly roamed around New L'Manburg drawing diagrams and forming plans, as Techno and Phil met up near the 'secret' base and made awkward small talk between father and son- even as Ghostbur wandered round and did his own thing, content in his little bubble- Phil couldn't help but begin to feel a tiny prick of security and warmth begin to spread throughout his being.

(Maybe he could forgive himself.)

(And Wilbur.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading !! :D i had this idea after listening to one of wilburs songs from YCGMA and i teared up a bit so i decided to write it. i rlly had no plot going in besides "phil has a breakdown and ghostbur tries to comfort him but ends up disappearing" so pardon me... have a good night or day, take your meds, brush your teeth, take your shower or bath! (stop procrastinating!)


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